The Sword of a King
by warrior4
Summary: Father Christmas remembers the forging of Rhindon. One Shot


A/N; _So I've been gone a good long while. I apologize for that and also the fact that it will also be quite a bit until my next story. However now that I have time and ability I figured I'd write up this quick little one shot while I had time. Usual disclaimers apply. Narnia belongs to C.S. Lewis and I'm not him._

The Sword of a King

I remember looking at the boy in front of me as he held the gift I had given him. _Could this truly be the one spoken of _I thought. _He's so young._ Thank the Lion that my fears were proved groundless only a few days later. I can still recall when the mighty Aslan came to me and requested the gifts be made.

* * *

"My friend, long has your sleigh been silent."

I looked up from my bench to a sight that warmed my heart. Aslan was walking towards me. In all the countless years I've known the Lion the sight of Him always warms my heart.

"Too true my Lord." I replied. "The power of the Witch still keeps me from Narnia."

"Yes," the Lion said. "But it shall not be so forever. Hope has been kindled and I am called to the west."

I almost couldn't believe what Aslan had said. Could the winter that had gripped Narnia for so long truly be nearing its end? Words can never describe the joy of living in Aslan's Country, yet Narnia had its own almost lyrical magic that I had always reveled in during my visits. Before the enormity of this could sink in Aslan was speaking again.

"Your skills are once again needed; however I have three special tasks for you." I listened with rapt attention as I was told what I needed to do.

* * *

This certainly wasn't the usual thing to come out of my workshop. To one side two of the three royal gifts lay completed. I was halfway done with last gift. The shield with its red lion lay gleaming on a soft cloth close to the bow, arrows, horn, knife, and cordial I had already made. All that was left was the sword.

Reverently I selected the not the finest steel but the roughest iron in my workshop. Clamping it tight in the tongs I plunged it into the forge. Pumping the bellows the pig iron soon started changing colors. First a dull orange replaced soon by a glowing red. More pulls on the bellows and the iron brightened into an almost joyful yellow. However I knew the iron needed to be much hotter. I worked the bellows furiously until the metal shone white and made it hard to look at. Only then did I take it out of the forge and lay it on my anvil.

The first blow of the hammer fell with a shower of sparks. Again and again the hammer fell driving the impurities from the iron. When the metal cooled to between a red and yellow I put it back in the forge to heat it again. The hot metal was soft and yielding under my hammer as the abuse I was putting it under stretched and shaped it. Slowly it started taking shape. Taking it out of the forge again I ran a careful eye down the form I had made. Nodding with approval I placed it in a cooler section of the forge to keep its heat up while I selected another ingot of rough pig iron.

This second piece was to for the core of the sword I was making, hard, strong, and true as a king should be. Heating the second piece like its brother I pulled it out and began a slower more methodical hammering of the iron. Slowly the impurities were hammered out. As they were the charcoal I had added to the forge was pounded into the iron, turning it into steel. I added more charcoal to this core steel than I had the outer softer steel that would make up the sharpened blades. While the hard core steel would offer strength to the blade I was making it was the more flexible softer steel that would allow the sword to resist the force of battle without shattering.

Finally I placed both hard and soft steel together in my forge and pulled hard on the bellows. Soon they were both glowing white hot. Taking them out of the forge and on my anvil I began hammering them together. I couldn't help but think about the qualities the wielder of this sword would need as I started the final forging.

CLANG! _Strength, to endure all challenges and trials_

CLANG! _Courage, to do what must be done regardless of fear_

CLANG! _Compassion, to stave off the horrors of war_

CLANG! _Justice, to only ride to war in defense of the defenseless_

CLANG! _Honor, to always do what is not always easy, but always right_

Looking at the sword the hard and soft steels were now fused together. Strength and flexibility evenly matched along the entire length of the blade. I placed the sword, for now it could be called thus, back in the force and heated it again. Just as the temper of the king must always be pure, so must the temper of his blade. The heat from the forge rose to something I had never felt before. I could hear loose hairs of my beard being singed even as I stood off from the heat.

Moving swiftly I ran outside and gathered some ice I had kept for this most important part of the forging. I dumped several buckets into the quenching trough. Soon the water was as cold as the land the sword I was making would soon liberate. Sweat drenched my forehead as I carefully reached my tongs into the forge and pulled the sword forth. In one smooth motion I plunged the white hot steel into the freezing water. The trough came alive in a dance of steam and crackling water.

Yet, I was not done. Twice more I heated the sword white hot and quenched it in the freezing water. After the third quenching I pulled it out of the trough and glanced down the blade. I don't think I have ever made something as close to perfect as that sword. Even in its rough form I could tell its balance would be perfect. The sharpest razor would never come close to the keenness of this blade.

I then set to work on the hilt. The steel cross guard was first fitted over the hilt. Nothing fancy save for two vertical pieces of steel to secure the blade in the scabbard I had already made. I shaped the handle from the wood of an oak tree that grew just outside my shop. I covered this oak with the finest leather I could find. A red leather that would not warp or lose its grip when wet. I fitted the hilt with a small golden band to help the grip of the warrior who would wield it. Finally a golden image of Aslan himself was set as the pommel. A reminder and a guardian as to who truly gave the king his authority to rule. I was about to begin honing the blade when I dropped my hammer.

Whoever has said Aslan doesn't have a sense of humor doesn't know the Lion. Just as I kneeled to retrieve my tool a blinding flash of lightning flashed and struck the sword on my anvil. I shielded my eyes yet I could somehow still see what was happening. The lightning traced along the edges of the blade giving them a sharpness I could never hope to achieve. Then it moved to the fuller I had pounded into the middle of the blade.

_When Aslan Bears His Teeth Winter Meets Its Death _was inscribed into the steel.

_When Aslan Shakes His Mane We Shall Have Spring Again _was struck into the reverse side.

With one more blinding flash of light the sword seemed to glow and was lifted off the anvil to pierce the anvil in front of where I was kneeling. The thunder from the lightning echoed away as a soft wind began to blow. A soft voice then whispered to me.

"Rhindon."

I looked at the sword sticking out of the anvil on which it had been forged. Reaching to the hilt I expected to have to pull hard to free it. To my surprise it slid out easily. It was now truly a thing of terrible beauty. Rhindon gleamed in my hand. Cold blue steel easily reflecting my image in its blade. I knew at once this blade was destined to be as much of a legend as the warrior that would carry it into battle. Taking the sheath I had made I slid it home for the first time.

Looking out the door I saw the stars of Narnia. For the first time in one hundred years they were aligned for Christmas. I quickly cleaned myself up and readied my sleigh. I had gifts to deliver and a kingdom to help save.


End file.
